She opened big eyes upon me. 'O, Mr. St. Ives!' she cried--'if
that is to be your name--I do not say they would not be becoming;
but for a journey, do you think they would be wise? I am afraid'--
she gave a pretty break of laughter--'I am afraid they would be
daft-like!'

'Well, and am I not daft?' I asked her.

'I do begin to think you are,' said she.

'There it is, then!' said I. 'I have been long enough a figure of
fun. Can you not feel with me that perhaps the bitterest thing in
this captivity has been the clothes? Make me a captive--bind me
with chains if you like--but let me be still myself. You do not
know what it is to be a walking travesty--among foes,' I added
bitterly.

'O, but you are too unjust!' she cried. 'You speak as though any
one ever dreamed of laughing at you. But no one did. We were all
pained to the heart. Even my aunt--though sometimes I do think she
was not quite in good taste--you should have seen her and heard her
at home! She took so much interest. Every patch in your clothes
made us sorry; it should have been a sister's work.'

'That is what I never had--a sister,' said I. 'But since you say
that I did not make you laugh--'

'O, Mr. St. Ives! never!' she exclaimed. 'Not for one moment. It
was all too sad. To see a gentleman --'

'In the clothes of a harlequin, and begging?' I suggested.

'To see a gentleman in distress, and nobly supporting it,' she
said.

'And do you not understand, my fair foe,' said I, 'that even if all
were as you say--even if you had thought my travesty were becoming-
-I should be only the more anxious, for my sake, for my country's
sake, and for the sake of your kindness, that you should see him
whom you have helped as God meant him to be seen? that you should
have something to remember him by at least more characteristic than
a misfitting sulphur-yellow suit, and half a week's beard?'

'You think a great deal too much of clothes,' she said. 'I am not
that kind of girl.'

'And I am afraid I am that kind of man,' said I. 'But do not think
of me too harshly for that. I talked just now of something to
remember by. I have many of them myself, of these beautiful
reminders, of these keepsakes, that I cannot be parted from until I
lose memory and life. Many of them are great things, many of them
are high virtues--charity, mercy, faith. But some of them are
trivial enough. Miss Flora, do you remember the day that I first
saw you, the day of the strong east wind? Miss Flora, shall I tell
you what you wore?'

We had both risen to our feet, and she had her hand already on the
door to go. Perhaps this attitude emboldened me to profit by the
last seconds of our interview; and it certainly rendered her escape
the more easy.

'O, you are too romantic!' she said, laughing; and with that my sun
was blown out, my enchantress had fled away, and I was again left
alone in the twilight with the lady hens.

CHAPTER IX--THREE IS COMPANY, AND FOUR NONE

The rest of the day I slept in the corner of the hen-house upon
Flora's shawl. Nor did I awake until a light shone suddenly in my
eyes, and starting up with a gasp (for, indeed, at the moment I
dreamed I was still swinging from the Castle battlements) I found
Ronald bending over me with a lantern. It appeared it was past
midnight, that I had slept about sixteen hours, and that Flora had
returned her poultry to the shed and I had heard her not. I could
not but wonder if she had stooped to look at me as I slept. The
puritan hens now slept irremediably; and being cheered with the
promise of supper I wished them an ironical good-night, and was
lighted across the garden and noiselessly admitted to a bedroom on
the ground floor of the cottage. There I found soap, water,
razors--offered me diffidently by my beardless host--and an outfit
of new clothes. To be shaved again without depending on the barber
of the gaol was a source of a delicious, if a childish joy. My
hair was sadly too long, but I was none so unwise as to make an
attempt on it myself.